


Get Your Fix

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom John, Domestic, Exhibitionism, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Painting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:04:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds ways of making Sherlock work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Your Fix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starrysummernights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrysummernights/gifts).



> This fic is for StarrySummerNights who requested fluffy domestic smut. I hope this fits the bill, dear!

John Watson isn’t an adrenaline junkie.

Okay, well… John Watson _may be_ an adrenaline junkie, but that’s not _all_ he is. The truth is, John gets along just fine without the rush of the chase or the blood-roiling thrill of having a gun at his head. He’s absolutely okay with long, quiet evenings in front of the telly and eating takeaway with the world’s only consulting three year old. John is perfectly happy gently binding up the various scrapes that come across his threshold: Sherlock’s most often, but occasionally Greg’s, and once, notably, a deep gash Molly gained while trying to give Toby a bath. He’s contented to putter around, cleaning the flat, putting things where they go, and waiting for the next crisis to arise.

Because John isn’t an adrenaline junkie, or, he isn’t only that. John’s a fixer. He gets deep satisfaction from putting things to rights again when they are wrong, and if that fixing instinct sometimes comes out a bit aggressive, John thinks he can be forgiven, seeing as he fixed it. Even Sherlock Holmes knows that when John Watson sees a problem that needs fixing, it’s best to just stand back and let the master work. Well, most of the time. This particular time, Sherlock tried his luck, but as always, John fixed him too

 

-

“Have you noticed Mrs. Hudson seems to be a bit frazzled lately?” John asked that day, coming up the stairs bearing tea and a plate of biscuits.

“Money,” Sherlock replied shortly from his sprawled location. John dropped a quick, chaste kiss on his forehead, a biscuit into his open mouth, and a cup of tea on the little table next to the sofa. Sherlock bit down on the biscuit, mindless of the crumbling, and glared at the easily bestowed affection.

“Oh, having a sulk were we?” John smiled, settling in his chair. He began idly sifting through the small stack of bills he generally kept on the mantel, doing the math mentally as he subtracted pounds from their account. “We should tell her to go up on the rent a bit, see if that would help out, yeah? She’d likely take it better from you than me. I get the idea she thinks you’ve got some impressive inheritance coming or something, all those bloody suits you own.”

“Don’t be foolish, John. Mrs. Hudson has met my mother. She’s perfectly aware that my wardrobe is a personal investment. And I wasn’t sulking.”

“Oh, I think you probably were,” John didn’t look up from the envelopes in his hands.

“I was not, so stop trying to cheer me up because it isn’t working,” Sherlock huffed.

“Why would I be trying to cheer you up if you weren’t sulking?”

“Because… Johnnnnn,” he whined, drawing the syllable out for long seconds. John smiled.

“So you’ll tell her? We can probably pay an extra seventy pounds a month or so. A hundred if we tighten the belts a bit.”

“She won’t take it.”

“Why do you say that?” John picked up a biro and chewed absentmindedly on the end, not even glancing at his pouty paramour.

“I deduced that you would want to help remedy this situation, especially upon remembering that many years ago I told you Mrs. Hudson was giving me a deal on the rent, and thus already offered,” he said smoothly, crisp tones indicating the source of his displeasure. “She threw a cup of tea in my face.”

“I rather thought you resembled a wet cat this afternoon,” John hummed, still pointedly not providing an audience for Sherlock’s dramatics. “We’ll just have to think of something else to do to help her out then.”

“I would much rather you turn those healing instincts this way,” Sherlock huffed, curling against the back of the sofa.

“Of course you would. D’you remember if we’ve paid the lights yet this month?”

 

-

It started with little gestures: John picking up far too many groceries, and delivering half of them to 221A; John suddenly taking interest in a variety of far-flung holidays for which he could buy cards and smuggle in money as gifts; John deciding to replace the windows for the whole building to something more energy efficient. Mrs. Hudson was nobody’s fool though.

“You know I can tell what you’re doing, dear,” she said as John dumped a small box of produce on her kitchen table.

“Got too much at that farmer’s market I went to with Molly yesterday, that’s all,” John avoided her eyes, unpacking the paper sack that held an extra box of tea and a few packages of biscuits. “Mind if I just leave these down here? They’re Sherlock’s favorite and if I don’t keep them out of the kitchen, he eats them all at once. Makes himself sick.”

“If you really wanted to help, you know, there is something you can do,” Mrs. Hudson said, completely ignoring John’s avoidance of the topic. His ears perked up as he piled apples into her crisper drawer. “I’ve decided to rent out 221C.”

“Oh, did you have someone interested then?” John beamed at her. “What did you need me to do?”

“Ah, well, you know, a young man did come by looking for a place to stay, and I did feel so bad about how it looks right now… He said he didn’t mind, now that the mould’s cleaned up, but perhaps you could, I don’t know, spruce it up a bit?”

“Say no more, Mrs. Hudson,” John planted a quick kiss on her cheek as he hurried to the door. “We’ll have it fixed up for you in no time.”

His footsteps sounded on the stairs as Martha let what he’d said sink in.

“ _We_?”

 

-

Sherlock grimaced as paint slid off the roller and onto his hand. Again.

“You’re not very good at this, are you love?” John grinned. He wore clothes that he’d normally wear to the gym: loose shorts, a fitted t-shirt, nothing but socks and a drop cloth between the newly stained concrete floor and his feet. He rolled the paint on smoothly, confidently, the muscles of his arms, legs, and back rippling under his clothes as he applied the second coat. Aside from a spattering of paint on his shin from where Sherlock had slung it earlier, he was completely clean. It made Sherlock desperate to dirty him up.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was completely filthy. His coveralls, purchased for a disguise and now being used for this incredibly menial task, were streaked with the soft blue-grey paint John had chosen for the walls, and drips of bright white clung to his hair from the incident with the trim. His knuckles were stiff with drying paint and he couldn’t even get high off of it, John having popped open absolutely every window in the little unit to vent the fumes. They’d been at it for days, pulling down wallpaper, putting up moulding, picking out paint. Now, on the final day of this horrific remodel, Sherlock had had just about enough of John’s quiet competence. And sniggering.

He dipped forward, pulling one long digit through the thick soup of blue paint. John painted on, blissfully unaware of his partner’s devious designs on his clean skin. The first mark was wet and cold against his partially-bared bicep, and completely satisfying.

“Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing?” John glared at him from under furrowed brows, but didn’t stop painting, his roller gliding easily over the textured plaster.

“Well, as you said, John, I’m not very good at this,” Sherlock rejoined, swiping at his doctor again, this time landing a mark along his neck. The brilliant white-grey-blue of the paint contrasting with John’s lightly browned skin made something flip in Sherlock’s stomach, a fierce, hot, carnal thing. He grinned, all predatory teeth and eyes, as John brought his roller down off the wall.

“Care to explain why you decided to paint me instead of the wall?”

“Oh, you know, I’m such rot at this domestic helping thing, I must have just missed my aim by a bit,” Sherlock grabbed a bristle brush and dipped it into the paint, dragging the tip against the tray in an almost lewd display. John watched, riveted, as paint bubbled down the side of the cheap plastic. Sherlock dragged the brush up, stroking it over John’s bare calf, watching hungrily as the streak of blue paint interrupted the golden line of soft fuzz and skin. His cock twitched with interest. John watched him with wide eyes and exhaled slowly, letting his paint roller hit the floor.

The brush dragged down the back of John’s other leg, leaving matching stripes on his skin, crudely reminiscent of stocking seams. The thought made Sherlock’s mouth water. He tugged at John’s shorts, hoping to finish the illusion up the backs of his thighs, but John snapped out of his reverie, grabbing hold of them.

“Sherlock, ah, not a good idea,” John flushed, bright red running up his neck to his ears. Sherlock squatted in the floor, entranced by the play of color on John’s skin. He smirked and tugged again.

“No, I’m serious Sherlock,” John growled, hoisting his shorts back up with one hand. He overcompensated, bringing the loose shorts right up against the vee of his legs, and Sherlock suddenly understood why.

“No pants, John?” Sherlock stood, all fluid grace and teasing tones. “Quite dirty of you, coming down in just these shorts and nothing else… Almost as if you knew something might happen…”

“Expected, yes, because you’re a horny bastard. Knew? No. That would imply something’s happening, and it’s not happening, Sherlock. We are going to finish painting this wall. Mrs. Hudson said the tenant would likely be by this afternoon to get the keys,” John bent down to pick the paint roller back up, and Sherlock stepped quickly behind him, placing one broad hand on John’s back. “ _Sherlock_ , come on, quit messing around please?”

“I assure you I’m not, ah, ‘messing’ at all, John.” Sherlock ground his hips slowly into John’s arse, keeping his lover bent at the waist. One hand toyed lightly at John’s hip, rubbing over the slight protuberance of bone and scratching lightly at the thin, delicate skin there. John gasped for breath.

“Christ,” John wriggled in Sherlock’s grasp, pushing his arse back into Sherlock. The hard line of Sherlock’s arousal was easy to feel through the thin fabric of his athletic shorts. Sherlock grunted as John’s agile hips pushed back against him, and let go just for a moment, just to unzip those damned coveralls.

A moment was plenty of time. John slipped away from Sherlock’s grasp with ease and spun, using his paint roller to keep the detective at a distance.

“What did I tell you Sherlock? Nothing is happening until this wall is painted.” Sherlock groaned, his hands stilling on the zip of the coveralls. The coarse, heavy fabric hung open over his bare chest, and John’s eyes were drawn down to that all that pale, creamy skin. “Nothing under those. Christ. Of course. Ah… hold on….” John scratched his head, ruffled his hand through his hair, and then met Sherlock’s eyes again. “Okay. Alright. You’re a bloody genius. You’re just lazy. So we’ll just… give you a bit of motivation.”

John moved close, pressing his body against Sherlock’s, running his fingers through the sparse smattering of hair on Sherlock’s chest. He pushed the handle of the roller brush into Sherlock’s hand and stood up on his toes to press their lips together.

“You put the second coat on that wall, nice and even, and if you can hold off until you’re finished, you can fuck me after.”

“Hold off?” Sherlock nipped at John’s lips, “Are you questioning my self-control, John?”

“Not at all. I’m completely doubting it. You should probably get started,” blue eyes winked with mischief. “I’ll be back in a mo’.”

Sherlock dipped the roller into the tray and started applying the second coat. The paint went on smooth and graceful, and for a moment, he lost himself in thoughts of the similarly graceful arc of John’s body, the way he moved when in the throes of passion, lithe and sensual. The bang of the door brought Sherlock back out of his reverie, as John closed and locked them in, holding tightly to a bottle of lubricant. Sherlock’s pulse rocketed up at the sight of it, at the knowledge of what it was for, but he kept his strokes on the wall smooth and calm.

John shot him a devilish look before walking over to a clean spot on the drop cloth and peeling his shirt away from his body. Sherlock watched, hungry eyed, as John ran small, calloused hands over his own skin, the small lines of paint standing out obscenely against a sea of sandy melanin. John pushed casually at the waist of his shorts, easing them down, down over the crest of his hips. He turned, revealing the curve of his arse with a sly grin over his shoulder. Paint dripped steadily from the roller where it rested against the wall.

“You should probably get to work, if you want a chance at this,” John laughed, sliding a hand casually over his bare skin. Sherlock shook himself and re-dipped the roller, smoothing in over the wall in large, fast swipes. “Ah-ah, now, you have to be careful. We want it to look good. Just go slow. I’ll go slow too.”

John stepped out of his shorts and peeled off his socks, hopping endearingly on one leg for a moment. Sherlock watched his back and bum, the soft shift of his muscles under skin, the strength of his legs as he moved. His cock strained against his pants, but he remained in motion, sweeping the paint over the wall in long strokes. John sat carefully on the drop cloth, his body completely bared for Sherlock’s perusal, and then leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow. He stroked his left hand easily down his side, teasing himself as much as Sherlock.

John’s eyes closed as he indulged himself, Sherlock’s gaze on him almost tangible. He rubbed small circles in his skin, spiraling down his chest and abdomen, teasingly soft touches that made his cock swell. Sherlock groaned as he watched John spill lube over his fingers and rake them up his cock. Slick, wet sounds filled the small room as John stroked himself, and Sherlock shuddered, having to remind himself again not to let the paint drip.

“I’m going to prepare myself now,” John said, voice hushed and gravelly with arousal. “And when I’m stretched open and ready, I’m going to make myself come with my fingers in my arse and my hand on my dick. If you’re finished with the wall when I’m ready, I’ll let you fuck me instead. Otherwise, you’ll just have to watch.”

Hearing those filthy words come out of John’s mouth sent waves of heat and pleasure through Sherlock’s body. He watched, entranced, as John’s fingers moved down over the smooth skin of his perineum to the soft pink pucker of his arsehole. John’s fingers circled languidly, spreading shiny lubricant over the delicate skin, and his little whimpers of pleasure at the touch made Sherlock greedy for more. The detective turned back to the wall. He had at least a third of it to go. He dipped the brush back into the paint and began rolling it on quickly and evenly, covering as much space as he was able. Behind him, John’s small whimpered noises soon became moans, and Sherlock could visualize very easily the short, careful digits working in and out of his body.

“Ohhhhh, Christ, Sherlock, better… ah…. hurry!”

Sherlock picked up the pace, careful not to dribble paint and careful not to turn around. If he did, he knew he’d be lost. The tenor of John’s moaning changed as a third finger pushed him open, and Sherlock panted at the familiar sound. Finally, the roller reached the corner, gliding easily along the last stretch of wall. Sherlock dropped it, mindless of the small splashes on the drop cloth, and tore at his zipper, trying to get out of the damned coveralls.

“Should… ha… make you edge that,” John groaned, three fingers pumping steadily in and out of his arse. He lay on his back with his knees curled up, one hand stroking lightly at his cock as the other twisted and pushed steadily against his hole. Sherlock growled, shoving his coveralls and pants down in one fluid motion.

“You are not putting me off any longer, John Watson,” his voice was harsh with need, and his cock stood painfully erect, weeping precome from the slit.

John groaned at the sight, pulling his own hands away from his body to make room for Sherlock instead. His hole fluttered around air for a moment, and Sherlock felt the obscene urge to bend down and taste it, to run his tongue along the rim until John was writhing and panting, to make John beg for it. He wouldn’t, though; he couldn’t wait, he needed to be inside the tight, slick heat of John’s body. He slicked himself with brutal efficiency, wincing as his own palm smoothed cold lubricant over his aching cock, and lined up, kneeling over his lover. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist and pulled. Both of them grunted as the head slid in, larger than John’s fingers but so familiar now, so right, right there in the cleft of his body. Sherlock pushed in and in and in until his balls hung heavy against the stretched skin of John’s arse. Underneath him, John shivered, the full feeling of Sherlock inside him riding the line between discomfort and pleasure. Sherlock reached between them, giving John’s slick cock a fast, hard stroke, and the smaller man cried out with a choked, needy sound.

“Oh, God, Sherlock, move, Christ, _fuck me_ ,” John clutched at Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed at Sherlock’s arse with his feet, frantic with desire. Sherlock obliged him, pumping in and out with long, slow, hard strokes. John’s blond head tossed on the hard floor, eyes squeezed closed as he rocked his hips up and back. Sherlock braced his weight on one forearm and leaned down, covering John’s hot, flushed body with his own. He cradled John’s skull in his hand and sought out his mouth in searing, breathy kisses. John’s cock dragged against his stomach and he pushed down and out, increasing the pressure as John grunted and moaned into his mouth.

Sherlock snapped his hips forward and back in a steady tattoo of pleasure, hip bones colliding with the upturned backs of John’s thighs on every thrust. He pulled one of John’s legs over his shoulder, the other still wrapped securely around his waist, and the change in angle made John’s eyes go wide, pupils large enough to obscure the deep sea blue of his irises. Sherlock moaned at the feeling of John clenching around him as his cock drug over his prostate, hitting it again and again. Together they spiraled upward, bodies tensing as they reached the edge of oblivion. Sherlock plundered John’s mouth with his own as he reached down between them and took his cock in hand, stroking it in time with his thrusts. John’s hips stuttered and every exhaled breath was a testament to his pleasure.

“Yes, Sherlock, yes, _yes_ , fuck me, Sherlock, _Christ_ , ah, ah- Ah…!”

John’s eyes snapped closed as he came, clenching almost painfully tight around Sherlock’s cock. Ribbons of come painted his stomach and Sherlock’s hand, and the sight sent Sherlock chasing him over the edge. Buried deep in John’s arse, Sherlock came with a harsh, wheezing grunt. For a long moment, they just lay there, Sherlock still twitching within the confines of John’s body, John lax and pliant underneath him. They kissed, easy and passionate and oh-so-sweetly familiar, enjoying the afterglow.

“John Watson, you are never to pull that sort of trick again,” Sherlock grumbled against John’s mouth.

“Well, it got the wall painted, didn’t it?” John laughed back, wriggling under the press of Sherlock’s not-insignificant weight. The shift caused Sherlock to jerk, oversensitive, and both of them giggled at the reaction, completely oblivious to the slight scratching sound of the a key in a lock.

“I told you not to go to any trouble, Mrs. H, I just needed a place to kip while - For fuck’s sake, you two, could you not make it back up to your own flat?!” Greg exclaimed, swinging open the door. “Myc, ah, don’t come in… As a matter of fact, no one come in… Oh for the love of Christ…”

John scrambled for his clothes but Sherlock stayed put, anchoring him to the floor. For a moment, John pushed at his larger, heavier lover, but it was immediately apparent that Sherlock wasn’t moving.

“ _This_ is your _young man_ , Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock said, slightly appalled at her inadequate description. “George Lestrade? And why is my brother in the hallway?” John groaned, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“It’s _Greg_ , you bloody lunatic. Myc’s helping me move my things out of Linda’s spare room, and Mrs. Hudson was doing me a favor, letting me settle here until, well…” Greg trailed off, uncertain, before the ridiculousness of the situation smacked him in the face again. “Hold off, wait a minute, why am I explaining myself to you lot, when you’ve just shagged on the floor of my flat? What are you even doing down here?”

Sherlock looked pointedly at John, who shrugged and offered Greg a small smile.

“We were… ah… fixing it up for you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


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